The Red Hand of Fury

by R. N. Morris

  Like a cricketer who was on ninety-nine and wanted to stay at the crease for the century.

  He was still light on his feet. And strong in his arms.

  But he felt the distant tug of the earth beneath him all the time now.

  It made him careful. Nothing wrong with that. But you had to be lucky too.

  He’d been part of the crew that climbed Nelson’s Column back in 1905, to get it ready for the Battle of Trafalgar centenary celebrations. To think they’d risk their necks to string a bit of bunting around the Admiral. You had to laugh.

  Now here he was, nearly ten years later, back on the column. There’d been a lightning strike in the storm a few days ago. Several witnesses reported a direct hit to Nelson’s bicorne. Though you could never be sure until you went up and had a look.

  And so the firm of W. Larkins Ltd had been called in.

  While they were up there they might as well take a wire brush to the layers of pigeon guano that had accumulated on the hero of Trafalgar.

  It was laborious toil, tethering the ladders to the column. They were held in place by ropes, looped loosely around at base level so that they could be lifted into place and secured.

  It was Alf’s habit now to tie the knots himself.

  Let the others ride their luck. He would put his trust in a firmly hitched builder’s knot.

  Course, a job like this always got the crowds out. That was to be expected.

  People came to look at Nelson’s Column anyway. But now there was the added attraction of a steeplejack clambering up the side of it.

  These days there were always a few taunts when Alf took to the ladder. Cries of ‘Oi, Granddad!’ And laughter.

  He was used to it. Lapped it up even. Because the doubters were always silenced by his limber ascent. Sprightly didn’t come into it. The jeers turned to cheers. His age transformed the spectacle from a feat of daring – a mere once-in-a-lifetime sighting – into something that simply shouldn’t be. A miracle, in other words.

  For all the clamour of approval, he never forgot the first rule.

  Don’t look down.

  No matter how much you were tempted to check the size of the crowd, or even wave to your admirers.

  Keep your eyes ahead.

  Soon enough you stopped hearing the noise anyhow.

  So it was strange that now, suddenly, forty-four rungs up the shaft, not quite halfway by his reckoning, he heard an unaccountable roar from the floor.

  Was the roar for him? It couldn’t be. He had done nothing to merit it, other than cling on for dear life.

  And now he felt it. The shake and tremble transmitted up the ladders. The slippage in the rigging.

  Someone else was coming up behind him.

  The fool was taking the ladders far too fast, judging by the rapid clatter of wood on masonry. At a faster lick than even Alf would risk.

  And still the crowd was roaring. If anything, louder than before.

  So it was that Alf broke the first rule. He looked down.

  What he saw nearly caused him to let go with both hands.

  Alf had never seen the like.

  The fellow was naked as the day he was born. No doubt about it. Even though Alf was looking down on him from above.

  He was coming up on Alf quickly. It wouldn’t be long before he laid hands on the very same ladder.

  ‘Go down! Go down, you!’ shouted Alf, waving the man back.

  But the man didn’t seem to hear. He was like a clockwork automaton, a toy monkey climbing up a palm tree.

  Alf shook his head in disbelief. There were so many things wrong here. Where do you start? In the end, Alf settled for yelling: ‘Only one man on the ladders at once!’

  It was his third rule of steeplejacking.

  But it was evident that this individual didn’t give a hoot for rules, whether of steeplejacking or anything else.

  Now he was on the ladder directly below, the one lashed to Alf’s. Close enough for Alf to hear his laboured breathing. And something else. The man was talking to himself. Alf couldn’t make out what he was saying but it sounded cracked. As if there could be any doubt about that!

  Another roar from the ground. Against his better judgement, Alf looked past the man to see the crowd below. He had never seen so many people gathered to watch him climb, their faces all upturned.

  Alf was numb with shock, frozen to the spot.

  It was as if he was a spectator in the event, watching to see how it would unfold.

  He took a particular interest in what his foot would do now that the man had his hand around its ankle.

  He couldn’t blame it for trying to shake itself free of that unwanted grip.

  He felt the weight of the man pulling him down. He knew instinctively that he was being drawn into a life or death struggle. This man was intent on death. His own at the very least. And it seemed it didn’t matter to him who he dragged down with him.

  His very lack of clothing seemed somehow to indicate that he was desperately done with life.

  Alf looked up, breaking the second of his steeplejacking rules. He moved hand over hand, lifted his free foot and then yanked hard to wrest the other out of the madman’s grip.

  The foot came loose surprisingly easily. From the ground rose a sound like the wind whipping through long grass, as several thousand people took in a sharp breath at once.

  Alf looked down in time to catch the last flailing moments of the naked man’s fall. The crowd parted. Pigeons scattered. There was a dull, disheartening crack. And now the man lay sprawled over Landseer’s lions in a pose of languid, almost decadent abandon.

  Alf’s legs began to tremble uncontrollably. His palms were suddenly bathed in sweat. His grip faltered as the strength drained from him. Trafalgar Square began to spin, like water going round in a draining plughole.

  He had to stop looking down, or he would go the same way.

  But the sight was irresistible. And the earth sucked at him. As if gravity’s power had multiplied, as a result of the sacrifice which had just been made to it.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The death of the unknown man who fell off Nelson’s Column failed to make it on to the front page of any newspaper.

  Another death, of an altogether more notable personage, was universally held to be the most interesting thing that had happened for a long time. And so the Trafalgar Square incident was not the only item of news that was relegated to the inside pages by the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo.

  Quinn made enquiries and ascertained that a brown corduroy suit had been discarded at the base of the monument. And that in the pockets of that suit had been found a card printed with the motif of a red hand. As before, the letters F.J.U.S. were written on the reverse, together with the number 7 – details that he had considered it expedient to keep from the press. However grotesque it seemed, one could never rule out the possibility of so-called ‘copycat’ acts. And so it was always useful to withhold a detail or two, by which one always knew when the original perpetrator was at work.

  What made this death different from the others was the presence of the steeplejack, who came close to sharing the fate of the dead man. Most likely he was inadvertently caught up in an insane act of self-destruction. But the possibility that the other man had been trying to bring him down with him could not be discounted. If nothing else, it indicated that whatever Timon Medway’s intentions were, his activities were capable of endangering other people besides his direct victims.

  For Quinn was now in no doubt that Medway was behind it all.

  Quinn was possessed by a frantic nervous energy. He paced the confines of the attic room in New Scotland Yard, leaving his sergeants somewhat bemused, if not alarmed.

  ‘In general terms I know how he did it.’ A dim consciousness that he was producing more spittle than was normal threatened to inhibit Quinn’s enthusiasm. But he decided that matters had reached a point where such niceties were no longer important. He dabbed at his mouth with
his cuff and pressed on. ‘Not the specifics of it. I don’t pretend to understand how the technique works. I dare say, Macadam, you can discover that. Doubtless there will be an appropriate periodical that you can subscribe to. Or it will turn out that you have a cousin who is a hypnotist.’

  ‘A hypnotist?’

  ‘That’s right. He hypnotizes them. What I don’t understand yet is why. Although I am not sure we can ever know why a man such as Timon Medway does anything. Except that he considers the rest of us to be his playthings. And if sometimes he breaks one of us, as a careless or an angry child might smash a toy, it is nothing to him.’

  ‘What about the cards?’ wondered Inchball. ‘Where do they come into all this?’

  ‘Oh, like many criminals of this kind, Medway is possessed by a monstrous arrogance. They are a sign of his great superiority over the rest of humanity.’

  ‘You mean he wants to be caught?’

  ‘Not exactly. He is confident that we – the police – will never catch him, monumental dullards that we are. And so he can taunt us with such clues, safe in the knowledge – so he believes – that we are far too stupid to solve them. His arrogance will be his undoing. It was before and it will be again.’

  ‘Do you think we have enough to get Sir Edward to change his mind?’ asked Macadam.

  Quinn’s pacing came to an abrupt stop. ‘We cannot trust Sir Edward. We cannot trust anyone but ourselves.’

  He caught the doubtful look that passed between his two sergeants at this dark pronouncement. But it was too late now for doubt or hesitation. What he must do was clear.

  THIRTY

  Mrs Ibbott heard the front door close. It could only be Inspector Quinn, even though the door was shut with more force than he usually employed.

  All her other guests were at home already, enjoying a sociable evening in the drawing room. Mr Appleby, the Hargreaveses and her own daughter were playing a few hands of whist. Mr Appleby had tried to teach them bridge, but Mary complained that it was a bore. Mr Timberley, who famously had no truck with cards, was reading a detective novel while sitting sideways in an armchair, his legs draped over one arm.

  She must say, she found it very gratifying the way everyone got along so well these days. Not to speak ill of the departed, but Miss Dillard had always been one for keeping herself to herself.

  The Hargreaveses had slotted in nicely, she had to say. Like a breath of fresh air, they were. Mrs Hargreaves seemed very sensible, as well as thoroughly charming. Mrs Ibbott hoped she would turn out to be a good example to Mary. And Mr Hargreaves struck her as a steady, dependable sort. A nice counterbalance to the excitability of her two young men.

  Neither of them were flashy, which was what Mrs Ibbott most liked about them.

  If only she could persuade the Inspector to join them occasionally. She knew he had taken Miss Dillard’s death heavily, more so than he cared to admit. And, granted, his work was a grave responsibility that must weigh heavily upon his shoulders. All the more reason to relax with friends now and then. But he was a tough nut to crack, and she was beginning to suspect that her attempts to draw him in were counterproductive. He had to find his own way into the drawing room, as it were. Though she would never tire of making sure he knew the door was open for him.

  With that in mind, she started to rise from her seat. But there was no need. The door burst open without her intervention.

  Inspector Quinn stood in the door frame. It took Mrs Ibbott a moment to realize that he was not quite himself. His face was flushed – had he been drinking? – and his necktie was awry, his collar sprung. In fact, she would have described his overall appearance as dishevelled.

  His gaze was focused, however. Fiercely so. Quite frankly, his look frightened her.

  The room fell silent at his entrance, all eyes turned towards him.

  ‘I know you want me dead. All of you.’

  He directed his gaze on each of them in turn, holding it at last on Mrs Hargreaves. His jaw trembled as he looked at her, as if he would burst into tears at any moment. It seemed as if he was waiting for something from her, some kind of denial perhaps. He shook his head in recrimination.

  ‘You think I don’t see it? I know what it means when you laugh behind closed doors.’

  Mary couldn’t help herself. She let out an audible snigger. It was nerves, of course. The poor girl was terrified out of her wits.

  Mrs Ibbott wouldn’t stand for that. ‘Inspector Quinn, I don’t know what’s got into you. I can assure you that no one wants you dead. On the contrary, we all wish the very best for you and regret that you are not able to join us in the evenings more often for a little friendly conversation. I fear that you are spending too much time in your own company. And that your excessive dedication to your work has placed an undue strain upon your nerves. Perhaps you are in need of a holiday? One thing I will say, however, is that I will not have you speak to my guests or my daughter in this alarming manner.’

  ‘You needn’t worry. I won’t stay in a house where people want me dead. Not a moment longer.’ Again he turned to Mrs Hargreaves. Something about his look made Mrs Ibbott very uneasy. ‘Will you come with me? Leave this … life. And come with me.’

  His invitation provoked a shriek from Mrs Hargreaves, as well it might.

  Mr Hargreaves sprang to his feet and squared up to Inspector Quinn. ‘What the hell is going on here?’

  ‘She despises you.’

  Someone gasped. Mrs Ibbott had a strong suspicion that it was Mary.

  Now Mr Timberley and Mr Appleby were on their feet too, interposing themselves between the two rivals. Mr Timberley made it his business to soothe the husband, while Mr Appleby tried to reason with the Inspector. ‘I say, old man, that’s a bit strong, you know. You can’t just say things like that to a chap.’

  ‘Come on, Hargreaves. Don’t listen to him. He’s not right … in the head. That’s obvious. The poor fellow’s having some kind of breakdown.’

  Inspector Quinn must have heard this. He turned his ire on the hapless Mr Timberley. ‘I won’t be judged by you! You and your … Latin.’

  ‘I think you need to …’ But it seemed Mr Appleby couldn’t think what the inspector needed to do. Except, perhaps, go. He had his hand on the policeman’s shoulder and was gently pressuring him backwards out of the room.

  But this only provoked a fresh outburst, as soon as Inspector Quinn realized what was going on. He swept his own arm upwards to bat away Mr Appleby’s solicitous hand. ‘Get your hands off me!’

  Mrs Ibbott was suddenly terrified that the situation would turn violent. It seemed that there was nowhere else for Inspector Quinn’s ugly anger to go.

  Her worst fears seemed likely to be borne out when Inspector Quinn shouted: ‘I have killed men! Many men! Dangerous men. I am not afraid of you.’

  Mr Appleby backed off with both palms held up in placation. ‘My dear chap … I am very glad to hear that you are not afraid of me. There’s absolutely no reason why you should be. I think you really should, perhaps, lie down, have a rest, you know. Perhaps you’ve had a few to drink … we all do it. Sleep it off. In the morning, we’ll all look back on this and have a jolly old laugh about it.’

  But judging from the raw suffering evident in his eyes, it seemed unlikely that Inspector Quinn would ever be able to laugh about anything again.

  He shot out a hand to point at Mrs Hargreaves. And tears now were streaming down his face. ‘I love her.’

  This was undoubtedly the most shocking thing he had said so far, the most shocking thing imaginable for him to say.

  ‘Steady on!’ came from Mr Appleby, while Mr Hargreaves bridled against the restraint of Mr Timberley’s body, his face flushed with rage.

  There was another shriek from Mrs Hargreaves, who was clearly not enjoying the attention, and appeared to be as surprised by Inspector Quinn’s declaration as everyone else. Mrs Ibbott was in no doubt that the poor woman had done nothing to encourage him. This really was a most trying s
ituation.

  Mr Hargreaves was screaming at the Inspector now. ‘You bloody bastard! How dare you!’

  Granted, he had been sorely provoked. But as far as Mrs Ibbott was concerned, there was no need for language. ‘Mr Hargreaves! Do not make a bad situation worse by indulging in the language of the taproom. My daughter is present, if you please.’

  Regrettably, it was evident Mary was enjoying herself far too much. She appeared to be viewing the whole thing as a scene in a play.

  It was enough to remind Mrs Ibbott of her maternal duty. ‘Mary, go to your room!’

  ‘Mother! I’m not a child!’

  ‘Go to your room!’

  Mary scowled at her mother but complied – at least to the extent of making her way towards the door of the drawing room. She gave a little yelp as she hurried past Inspector Quinn, her fists balled and held up to her face protectively.

  ‘And you, Inspector, I think you should take this opportunity to retire too. I dare say things will look differently in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m going.’

  He pushed Mr Appleby away from him – rather unnecessarily, Mrs Ibbott thought – and fled the room. A high-pitched scream revealed Mary’s presence lurking just out of sight.

  Mrs Ibbott then heard the front door open and a howl of pain and rage as he flung himself out into the night.

  ‘What an extraordinary …’ began Mr Hargreaves.

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ cried Mrs Hargreaves, her nerves understandably on edge. For the first time, Mrs Ibbott wondered if, after all, there might be something in Inspector Quinn’s bizarre outburst.

  Mrs Ibbott shook her head as if to dispel the memory of an unpleasant dream. She found Mary cowering against the wall in the hallway. The front door was wide open.

  She went out on to the top step and looked down the street in both directions.

  There was no sign of him.

  Mrs Ibbott closed the door quietly, stealthily, as if to honour his memory.

  He was an unusual man, she had to admit.